


there's something about a masquerade

by lily_winterwood



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (accidental Pre-Canon), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Sex Party, Tango
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9754445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: “There’s something about a masquerade,” he murmurs against Yuuri’s ear, almost in a desperate attempt to distract the man from thinking too hard about his burgeoning arousal, “that really breaks down some of the rules of social intimacy.”“So you’re saying this doesn’t happen often to you,” states Yuuri.Viktor nods. “I just came here with a friend of mine — who’s currently preoccupied, of course — it seemed like an interesting way to spend Valentine’s Day.”(completely self-indulgent masquerade smut for Victuuri Week)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I most definitely didn't intend this to get a bit angsty near the end, nor did I anticipate it ending up being some sort of weird pre-canon thing. But hey. I finally get to check 'masquerade one-night stand' off the list of things I wanted to write about before I die so there you go. Have my un-beta'd, completely self-indulgent nonsense, and happy late Valentine's Day to y'all.

The room is dimly lit, fairy lights and candles casting the partygoers in shades of warm sensuality. Viktor Nikiforov steps through the crowd, his face obscured in part by a solid black colombina. Contrary to his friend Christophe, who had procured them both invitations to this event, he was not on the lookout for anything or anyone in particular tonight. In fact, he never really frequents these sorts of parties by himself; the ice has always been a more compelling siren.

But tonight there’s something in the thrum of the music, in the move of the bodies across the floor. Several young women with tightly curled hair and brocade corsets beckon to him, peeks of lace stockings appearing under flashes of gossamer skirts, but he smiles and shakes his head, leaving them pouting in disappointment. He doesn’t feel too bad; they’re all likely to find other dates by the end of the night.

He sees, out of the corner of his eye, Christophe being kissed by a slightly older man with brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and he smiles just a little at the sight. They seem headed straight for one of the more private rooms at this venue, and the night is still fairly young. Christophe works fast. Viktor chuckles a bit at that thought.

But Christophe and his catch of the night aren’t the only ones already getting cosy; Viktor can see many other couples and groups already on the couches, on the cushions, even against the walls. The dance floor itself is a pulse of people pushing and pulling, grinding and pressing, testing out the rhythms of each other’s bodies. The music only barely masks wanton moans and gasps, barely obscures the sounds of sex and sensuality. It pulses through his body like it’s taken over his heart, and the longer he listens to it, the more heated his blood becomes.

Viktor dances with the next woman who asks, but it doesn’t go too well; he moves to the music and not with her. She’s very pretty, of course, but he doesn’t feel compelled to find out what lurks under her tight little dress. When another woman cuts in to dance with her, Viktor concedes almost gratefully and steps back into the crowd at the heart of the dance floor.

That’s when he sees the man in the centre of this crowd, and his breath is taken away.

The man’s eyes are burnished bronze, sparkling in the low light of the room, barely framed by a whisper of lace at his eyes that just passes as a domino. His lips are scandalously red; the fairy lights dance across his high cheekbones and caress the lines of his body. He’s in a bodice of black satin with splashes of crystal and panels of silvery mesh, and as Viktor’s gaze descends he notices black briefs and thigh-highs and a set of red heels as bright as his lips.

But it’s the fluidity of the man’s dancing that really catches Viktor’s eyes. He is a natural at translating music into motion, of turning the beat of another’s song into his own. This, plus the smouldering look he flashes at Viktor when his eyes scan the crowd, and the way he licks at his lips before his hands move along his body, tilts Viktor’s world on its axis until he’s not quite sure of his grasp on time and space anymore.

He lurches forward, half-enchanted by the man’s beauty, half shoved there by the crowd, and his heart stutters when the man seizes him by his tie and drags him into his dance.

“Hello,” the man murmurs into his ear. Viktor is too aware of the press of his hips, the warmth of his fingertips. He can feel his ears burning. His feet seem to have gone on autopilot; they’re moving mostly to avoid the other man’s legs.

“Hi,” he breathes. His head feels like it’s made of nothing but cotton and the formula for determining the exact shade of this man’s eyes. It’s overwhelming. He wouldn’t trade it for any other position in the world.

“Can you dance?” asks the man.

Viktor nods numbly.

“Show me,” the man commands, and Viktor slides a hand around his waist, waits for the next downbeat. He steps between the man’s legs.

He hears an amused chuckle tickling at his ear. There’s no language barrier between them; as Viktor moves, his partner reacts smoothly. His body shifts and steps with perfect eights, and when he tilts his head a little to the side, Viktor is almost overwhelmed by the faint hint of rose cologne at the junction of his collar.

“The tango,” remarks the man. “Bold choice.”

“Seems fitting,” replies Viktor, trying to salvage what’s left of his previously unflappable persona. He can feel his cheeks burning now, or maybe that’s because of their proximity and the heated room temperature.

The man hums. “What should I call you?” he asks.

“Viktor,” replies Viktor, as they turn, and his eyes follow the line of the man’s leg as it briefly flicks out, red heels flashing. The warmth of the other man’s body is simultaneously too close and too far away as he steps expertly with Viktor to the beat. “What do I call you?”

“Yuuri,” says the man, the curl of his red lips making Viktor’s trousers feel a little tighter than usual.

“Go to these places often?” Viktor asks, and Yuuri shakes his head. “You dance like you do,” Viktor admits, and the man chuckles a bit, a spot of crimson blooming in his cheeks.

The other couples have started to return to dancing by now, most of them just feeling the beat with each other’s bodies, an extended rutting before moving off to darker corners of the party. The two of them cut through all these pairs and groups, though Viktor isn’t very cognisant of his surroundings; the world has narrowed to just the dark warmth of Yuuri’s eyes and the solidness of his waist beneath Viktor’s hand.

“I like dancing,” replies Yuuri matter-of-factly. “I’ve been doing it since I was young.”

He slides his leg between Viktor’s, and Viktor has to stifle a groan as his thigh brushes against his crotch. The other man’s expression quirks into something even more devious, and Viktor feels his blush spread down his cheeks and along his neck.

“There’s something about a masquerade,” he murmurs against Yuuri’s ear, almost in a desperate attempt to distract the man from thinking too hard about his burgeoning arousal, “that really breaks down some of the rules of social intimacy.”

“So you’re saying this doesn’t happen often to you,” states Yuuri.

Viktor nods. “I just came here with a friend of mine — who’s currently preoccupied, of course — it seemed like an interesting way to spend Valentine’s Day.”

“Hm.” Yuuri turns so his ass is pressed flush against Viktor, one hand guiding Viktor’s down his bodice. They lean down briefly together, legs pressed against one another, before Yuuri turns and hooks his leg around Viktor’s thigh and leans into him. “There  _is_  something about this sort of anonymity that makes you more open to pushing your boundaries, you know.”

“Pushing boundaries, hm?” wonders Viktor, a sly smirk slipping onto his face as he reaches past the small of Yuuri’s back to grab his ass. He hears a small gasp, and then a low chuckle. Yuuri’s lips are centimetres from his ears seconds after, eliciting shivers down his spine.

“How far do you want to take this, Viktor?” the man purrs.

“As far as you’d let me,” replies Viktor, his blood already heating at the thought. The man’s arousal presses firmly against his thigh the next time he hooks a leg around Viktor’s, leaving no question as to what direction they’re going in. Viktor mutters a curse under his breath.

“Russian,” remarks Yuuri. “ _Delightful_.”

Viktor feels a shiver run down his spine.  

They’re leaving the dance floor as the song ends, pushing through the crowd of increasingly undressed partygoers, until Yuuri finds them an open door leading into an equally dim small room with a chaise lounge and a low coffee table decorated with flowers, condoms, and lube. Viktor closes the doors behind them, and once it clicks, Yuuri is pressing him against it, his mouth crashing onto Viktor’s with increasing urgency.

Viktor closes his eyes, but there’s barely any difference in the darkness; all he knows right now is the overwhelming warmth of Yuuri’s body, of the slide of satin and brocade under his fingers and the contrasting hardness between his legs. Yuuri’s hands scrabble at the lapel of Viktor’s suit jacket, trying to shove it off his shoulders. Viktor obliges, shucking his waistcoat with it and undoing the collar of his white dress shirt under that. Yuuri then hooks a stockinged leg against Viktor’s hips, and Viktor helps prop it, fingers digging into the flesh of his ass. His mouth opens to Yuuri’s searching tongue; Yuuri licks into his mouth with a heady confidence that causes Viktor’s knees to wobble slightly.

They break for air after a moment, Viktor entranced by the heaving paleness of Yuuri’s chest. His hand reaches for the fastenings of the bodice, but Yuuri undoes them faster and flings it to the floor, exposing his chest to Viktor’s roving kisses and touches. He makes such lovely noises with each touch, blossoming against Viktor’s fingers and lips with mewling cries and tugs of Viktor’s hair.

Viktor kneels against Yuuri’s hips, mouth pressed against the bulge in Yuuri’s lacy black briefs. He looks up, briefly, trying to gauge if it’s all right to keep going, but Yuuri’s fingers only tighten in his hair, pressing him closer. So Viktor breathes, and a shiver runs through Yuuri’s body as his lips press against the base of his clothed but hardening cock.

“Please,” Yuuri murmurs as Viktor’s fingers hook in the waistband of his briefs. Viktor smiles against the lace, before pressing a kiss to the strip of skin just above his left stocking, and chuckling at the ensuing gasp.

“What would you like me to do?” he asks, half-teasing, half-earnest.

“I need your mouth,” Yuuri breathes. “And then your cock.”

Viktor swallows. He hadn’t known his trousers could get any tighter, but apparently they can. He reaches down to undo his zip and fly, letting out some of the tension. Yuuri’s eyes seem to darken even more behind his lacy domino as he watches Viktor free his cock from his pants. He licks his lips, and Viktor groans at the sight.

“What will you tell me if you need me to stop?” he rasps.

“Ideally, I won’t need you to stop,” replies Yuuri, his fingers tightening in Viktor’s hair. “But I’ll say ‘Vicchan’ if I do.”

Viktor blinks at that, briefly, but any questions he might have had about that fly from his mind the instant Yuuri’s fingers tug at his hair, and he is confronted again with the lacy front of Yuuri’s briefs. He lowers the cloth, swallowing at the sight of Yuuri’s erection before pushing the briefs down Yuuri’s hips for better access.

Yuuri arches into his mouth almost the moment it touches his tip. He’s uncut; Viktor pulls his foreskin back to reveal a flushed head made darker by the dim lighting of the room. Savouring the hitches in Yuuri’s breath, Viktor swirls his tongue around the tip, tasting the saltiness of his pre-come before he takes Yuuri into his mouth.

The noise of the party, though dimmed already by the door, falls away completely in this moment. Viktor’s world narrows to just the taste of Yuuri on his lips, the fullness of his cock, the softness of his skin. He takes Yuuri’s shaft deeper, his hands making up the rest of the distance before he starts to move his mouth, coaxing breathy noises of want out of Yuuri’s with each bob of his head.

Yuuri tugs at his hair, his hips bucking a little faster against Viktor’s mouth. He takes it as a sign to speed up, and is rewarded with a half-bitten mewl. Viktor moves his hands to hold Yuuri’s hips in place against the door, thumbs skimming over stretch marks as his mouth bears down on Yuuri’s cock again and again, until Yuuri’s hands clench in his hair and he wrests his hips from the press of Viktor’s hands and  _bucks_.

And god, Viktor loves it. Loves the drool dribbling out of his mouth as Yuuri fucks it, loves the relentlessness of Yuuri’s hips and the line of his throat when he tosses it back in pleasure. Yuuri’s body is an open book; all signs point to him being close, and it’s all Viktor can do to just kneel there and be used by this magnificent masked stranger until he tastes the bitter saltiness of his cum at the back of his throat.

He swallows, licking at his lips, smirking at the slightly winded expression on Yuuri’s face. Rising slowly to his feet, Viktor pushes his trousers and pants off before loosening his tie, but Yuuri’s the one making short work of his dress shirt buttons, almost ripping them off in his eagerness.

Almost as soon as Viktor’s shirt and tie fall to the floor, Yuuri is walking them to the chaise. Viktor crushes their lips together again, his hand kneading at Yuuri’s ass. The back of his knees hit the chaise moments later, and he sits down, watching Yuuri grab a condom and some lube from the table before coming to straddle his lap.

“Still want my cock?” he asks, and Yuuri nods, setting down the condom next to them before ripping open the packet of lube and coating his fingers in it liberally. He leans down, kisses Viktor briefly — nipping lightly at his lips — before pulling back.

“Don’t take your eyes off me,” he breathes, before spreading his legs even further, arching his body, and slipping a finger into himself.

Viktor couldn’t have looked away even if he’d wanted to. Yuuri’s breath comes out in little pants; his dark hair is now unruly with sweat and exertion. But Viktor’s not sure if he’s seen anything more erotic before in his life. The sight of Yuuri’s fingers moving in and out of himself, his entire face flushed red even in the dim room, forces Viktor to run through the steps of his short programme instead of coming right then and there.

“I could help,” he begins, but Yuuri shakes his head, briefly resting his head against Viktor’s shoulder and gasping against his skin. Viktor starts thinking about the steps of his free programme, too. Yakov keeps telling him his quad Lutz landings have been a bit crunchy…

Finally, Yuuri gasps out that he’s ready, and reaches for the condom packet. Viktor’s brain immediately snaps back to the present, to the roses of Yuuri’s cologne and the mess of lipstick across his face. The man’s blush seems to have travelled down to his chest as he rolls the condom onto Viktor’s cock, as he slicks it up and lines it with himself. He looks so thoroughly debauched, and Viktor hasn’t even entered him yet.

But that’s quickly rectified, as Yuuri begins to lower himself, and Viktor’s eyes close a little as he feels his cock become slowly enveloped in slick, tight heat. He feels Yuuri’s hands brush against the sides of his face, thumbs running up against the edges of his mask. He opens his eyes, and is faced with Yuuri’s flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips as the man begins to move.

“Oh god,” Viktor moans, his hands roaming across the small of Yuuri’s back, squeezing at his ass, coming to rest on his hips. He bucks his own to meet Yuuri’s, trying to follow the rhythm of his body. One of his hands returns to Yuuri’s cock, coaxing it back to hardness before starting to pump. Yuuri cries out at that, head flying back to expose the column of his neck, and god, Viktor wants to mark him, wants to claim him.

But what sort of claim does he have over a stranger like Yuuri? After this night they’ll go their separate ways, with only memories to remind themselves of this brief connection they’d shared. Yuuri’s fingernails dig into his shoulders now, his hips now rocking without rhyme or reason. He’s chasing climax, Viktor knows, and so he lets go of the last of his thoughts, and  _moves_  with him.

“Viktor, please,” Yuuri pants, and Viktor shifts their positions sideways, briefly pulling out so he can push Yuuri down onto the chaise. He spreads the man’s legs, lines himself up, and thrusts back in, hooking Yuuri’s legs over his shoulders so he can fuck deeper into him. Yuuri cries at that, his words a mixture of  _yes_  and  _Viktor_  and _harder_  and  _more_ , as if that’s all the words that exist in his vocabulary. Viktor obliges, his hips thrusting harder, his mind devoid of everything except the  _rightness_  of the heat between their bodies.

He comes before Yuuri does, his body going almost boneless in climax as he pulls out, blinking stars out of his eyes. Yuuri’s hands comes down to fist at his cock, and Viktor moves his own to help him, coaxing him to another climax and savouring the cry on his lips when he does.

For a brief moment, Viktor wants to remove his mask, wants to see what’s under Yuuri’s — but he stops himself before he can. Yuuri cleans them up, his chest heaving still, and Viktor watches him hungrily, hating the possessive twinge of his heart as he watches the man toss the used condom and slip his briefs back on. The outside world has no space at this masquerade; that’s the point of it. But he desperately still wants to know if there’s a chance he’ll see this man again. So he asks.

“Think you’ll ever come to one of these again?” He tries to keep his tone casual, offhand, as if it doesn’t really matter to him if he sees Yuuri again. But the man fixes him with a steady dark gaze, eyes sparkling in the dim light of the room.

“I don’t know,” he says. At least he’s honest about it.

Viktor sighs. “I want to see you again,” he admits.

Yuuri flushes at that. “I… I don’t know if that’d be a good idea,” he says, but he steps over to Viktor and brushes their lips together, soft, apologetic. “We don’t really know each other outside of this.”

“But we could,” Viktor points out. Yuuri bites his lip.

“I don’t know,” he repeats, tracing a finger down Viktor’s jawline, and Viktor swallows at the unfathomable glint in Yuuri’s eyes. “I came here for a fantasy, Viktor. I’m sorry.”

Viktor nods. “I understand,” he says, even though his heart is beating so hard in his chest that it hurts.

Yuuri nods, too, as if he’s not quite sure what to say to that, and he steps away with a strange hint of sadness in his face. Picking up his bodice at the door, Yuuri turns and looks at him again.

“You returning to the party?” he asks.

Viktor shrugs. “In a moment,” he says. Yuuri nods again, dons his bodice once more, and slips out the door without a second glance.

* * *

A couple months later, as Viktor Nikiforov watches the lithe, brief-clad body of Yuuri Katsuki swing along a metal pole at the Grand Prix Final banquet in Sochi, he suddenly remembers a darkened room with flowers and a pair of darkened eyes behind a lacy domino, and his heart skips a beat.


End file.
